


The Hands of a Took

by killaminjaro



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2017-11-27 02:21:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/657002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killaminjaro/pseuds/killaminjaro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Thorin, Kili and Fili all at Death's Door, there was only one thing for a little hobbit to do. In order to save the line of Durin, Bilbo makes a pact with a greater being, but the price is greater than anyone imagined. Be wary of desperate wishes made on death beds, for deep magic courses in the veins of the precipice between life and death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The beginning is written not to be exact as the canonical writing, but gratuitously interpreted. Some of the writing is from the canon text but not all of it. This has a lot more angst than I imagined, but I wanted to write something in which they all live at the expense of their burglar. I'm sorry for the weird voodoo magic that suddenly happens but I'm too lazy to think of a badass way for it to happen. I also apologize for any mistakes in writing I have made, I do not write frequently, or well for that matter.

He stumbled onto flatter ground, dizzy from passing out from the rock that sailed right into head earlier in the battle. The battle was over already, the dead were countless and vast, soaking the ground red, but he was happy to see that those left standing, and currently searching for the wounded were familiar and mostly friendly faces, albeit grim. Blinking and balancing as his world began to spin once more, he called out, "Hullo there! What news!" He wasn't sure if the distance figures would hear him, but he failed to notice a man off to the side, where he was still trying to regain his periphery. 

"What voice speaks from the stones?" returned the voice and Bilbo suddenly remembered his ring. Hurriedly pulling it off, he stashed it back into his waistcoat pocket before raising his hand and waving the man over.

"It's me, Bilbo Baggins, companion of Thorin!" He supposed he couldn't call himself that anymore, considering how their friendship had been ripped to shreds and thrown out the day he gave away the Arkenstone.

The man looked relieved and came quickly to him. "It is well I have found you! I have been sent to look here for you. Are you hurt?" 

"Just a nasty lump on my head, I think." He reached up and gingerly brushed the side of his head, aggravating the wound further to dizzying effect. "I fear it's making it rather hard for me to stand."

The man nodded and said, "I shall carry you down to the camp," then picked him up with ease. 

When they arrived, Gandalf stood next to the tent flap waiting for him with his arm in a sling. His face brightened as a grandfather does when his grandchildren are found safe, but his face dropped just as quickly by the gravity of the situation. "He has not much time left, nor does Kili or Fili. They were all gravely injured. The healers have already declared them to have but a few hours left in them. They may still be conscious."

Stunned, Bilbo swallowed. The line of Durin was... no more? No? This could not be happening. He stared at the darkness behind the tent flap and breathed loudly. Even though Thorin had been harsh with his words, this was not the end he would have ever wished for the King under the Mountain. Despite his goldfever and jealous rage of the Arkenstone, he knew there was still the noble king under it all. The one he fell in ... no, he would not go there. 

He thought of the two princes, their jovial expressions when he first met them. How could fate be so cruel to smother their light so quickly. Certainly, they have lived for far longer than even he, but they were children in mind. A cruel twist, for the boys to be taken so soon. 

No. Something must be done. A tingling feeling began in his finger tips and he ignored it as he stepped into the tent, his eyes rapidly adjusting to the dimmer lighting. 

Pallid and weak all three had their eyes closed, breathing labored, but as wispy as a capricious autumn breeze. He could almost see their souls departing. It was terrifying. Shaking, he stepped closer, completely unaware of the other occupants filing out of the room to give him some privacy. All he could see was the whitened face of Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain. 

"Thorin?" He whispered. "Thorin, you must wake up. Your mountain, you finally have it back, why are you so eager to leave it so quickly?" Before he even realized, his face was hot with tears, and his shoulder shook as his opening sobbed, covering his mouth. 

They needed to all wake up so they can rebuild Erebor, so that they may see it return to all it's shining, magnificent, awe-striking glory. They had to. Whatever it took. Even if it took what was most important to him. He suddenly began to pray, despite not being much of the religious type, he prayed to anything, everything out there that was unknown and powerful. He prayed, "Please, for their lives, I will exchange anything, even my own life for theirs! They have so much more they must do." 

And for some reason, the gods happened to have their ears turned in the right direction and the miracle happened.

Even he could not explain the way it occured or how it was even possible. All he knew was he saw the light come from the very tips of his fingers, taking his warmth, his touch, and feeling, and carried itself over and into the dying dwarves bodies. Within seconds their breathing leveled and the color in their cheeks returned ever so slightly. They could have been mistaken for taking a midday nap. 

He went to cover his hand as he gasp, but all he found that covered his mouth was the side of his thumb. He tried to hold them up, but they responded no more. 

He dropped it and held up them both in front of him, looking as the flopped whenever he moved him arm, like lifeless mounds of flesh attached to his living arms. He nearly screamed. But he was too much in shock. A considerable amount of time must have passed because Gandalf cleared his throat politely from behind him and then came into the tent. 

It didn't take long for the wise one to notice the return of life to the fallen royalties' visages, then at Bilbo's stricken face. It was mere moments when he saw the way the hobbits hands awkwardly hung flaccidly in front of him. Gathering his robes quickly, he swished to the front of Bilbo, kneeling down. 

Gandalf the Grey gathered up the limp hands of the hobbit in his large knobby ones, starkly contrasting the soft roundness of fingers made for cooking and gardening, not weilding a sword. His face fell heavy when he felt no resistance left in the hands as he gently squeezed them between his great fingers. "Bilbo Baggins, my boy, what have you done?"

The dirty blonde curls hid his face from view, though in a firm voice he said, "I did what was necessary," But his strength only lasted a moment before the safety of the wizard's body entombed him in a cage of warmth as tears sprouted from his eyes. 

His hands, the very hands that tilled the earth not too long ago. The ones he used to write of his journey into Erebor only a week ago. The very hands that wielded Sting in tight grip as if there was nothing more important in the world than to keep hold of his sword, a few hours ago. They were useless now. Never to pick up a quill, knead the earth, or brush the faces of a loved one. 

The old wizard pulled them apart, holding Bilbo up by the shoulders. "What will you do now, Bilbo?" 

"What is necessary." He said and for the first time looked up at the wizards face, eyes creased with pained determination. 

"And what my that be?" The wizard asked, a brow involuntarily rising.

"Return to the Shire. What I should have done when he first cast me out."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Should he leave, or should he stay?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually changed the ending of Chapter 1 slightly, I didn't realize Bilbo somehow managed to teleport at least 5 yards away from the tent within the lapse of a sentence. 
> 
> I apologize beforehand for any out of character qualities any of the characters display. I was never very good at depicting personality and unique characteristics. Also, this is un-beta'd and not exactly proofread properly, so if there are any mistakes in grammar or spelling, again the fault is mine.

"I cannot make you do anything, but I suggest not to leave so quickly, Bilbo. You should know that before falling into deep slumber Thorin had been asking for you by name." The wizard patted the small hobbit on the shoulder. "Do not be so hasty in throwing away the very things that are important to you."

Bilbo looked at the sleeping figures. It was true they were important to him, but could they say the same of him? He was but a hobbit from the Shire, not a noble or anyone of significance. What did a king under the mountain need from a hobbit who could not even use his hands? There was nothing he could do to help.

He closed his eyes, "What could I possibly do for them? I cannot even touch them anymore."

Gandalf softened, gingerly squeezing the shoulder, "I will do what I can to give you your hands back, but do try to mend your troubles with Thorin. He will need you when he awakes."

Bilbo doubted either was true or possible, but held his tongue.

"Now let the others discover the good news while you rest." Gandalf ducked down to leave the tent, letting the others of the Company, waiting patiently outside the tent that there had been a miraculous change of fate. Bilbo followed suit, but was pushed back inside by Dori, Nori, Dwalin, Gloin, Oin, Bombur, Bifur, Bofur, and Ori who were all very eager to see what Gandalf meant and wanted Bilbo there beside them. Out of the corner of Bilbo's eye, before being pushed back into the tent, he saw Balin and Gandalf speaking to each other gravely. Balin's features were grim, and for a second when Gandalf looked over at them, their eyes met.

  
Bofur, the ever considerate dwarf was the first to notice Bilbo's unnaturally limp hands as they dragged him with them to the princes' bedsides. "Bilbo? What happened to your hands?"

The question made all the conscious members of the party turn to him. He froze. What should he tell them? Should he tell them the truth or pretend nothing was wrong. He looked at each of them, and everywhere he looked, a friend stared back at him. So he sighed and lifted his lifeless hands, palms up and said,"I can't feel my hands anymore."

Bofur's brows twisted in confusion as did pretty much everyone. "Bilbo? What do you mean? What happened?"

Bilbo sighed further, any energy he had seeping out him. "I don't know. I don't know." He repeated. He wondered the same. How had this happened? There was no magic in the world that even Gandalf dared to touch that could bring a man back to life from the brink of death.

Bofur was the first to react, wrapping an arm around Bilbo's shoulders. He didn't say a word, but supported Bilbo's weight when he weakly sagged in his own body. The rest of the group looked from their royal princes and to Bilbo, wondering if they could be thankful for something for such great a price.

  
It was poor Ori who spoke up, though he had not meant harm, "What'll you do now?"

Blank minded on the verge of fainting, Bilbo let out a whimper, "I... cannot stay. I shouldn't even be here."

They all knew of the words Thorin roared, banishing their burglar from his presence. Balin had tried to reason with Thorin, but at the time, his gold fever had been heavy on his mind and nothing would sway his betrayal. Not even Fili and Kili's outrage affected him at the time.

No one noticed Balin had entered the tent, too enraptured by the predicament, until he spoke, "There are some pressing matters Gandalf has need of attending to, so for the time being until there is someone who can escort Master Baggins to the Shire in safety, you can stay here in Erebor for as long as you need, laddie."

"But what about what Thorin said? He is the king after all..."

"We and he are in your debt, it is the least we could do for you, in your current state."

"No, I really couldn't. " It would be too much to bear. "I've done what I can, and now that you have your home, it is time for me to return to mine." He spoke a tremor in his voice, his throat clenching as he barely whispered out the words. Right now, he would have clenched his hands into tight balls of fists, but instead they hung as limp as dead fish by his side, cold and clammy.

Balin's beard drooped as he frowned, "If you change your mind, lad, let me know. I'd be happy to find you a place to stay here."

  
Bilbo nodded shallowly.

Oin took the moment to look around at the uncomfortable silence and chirped, "Well, let's give Thorin and the princes some room, they need all the rest they can get, and we shouldn't be disturbing them."

They all agreed unanimously at the tip and filed back out with mixed feelings. Bilbo lagged behind until he was the last to leave the tent. this would probably be the last he would see of Thorin.

He walked slowly to the dwarf king's bedside and very gently brushed one of his hands across the top of Thorin's knuckles hoping that another miracle would happen and he would be able to feel the warmth of his dwarf against his skin. But he felt nothing.

In the shadows of solitude, Bilbo's eyes watered and spilled over, splashing onto Thorin and his hand.

Call from the darkness and silence of unconsciousness by the touch and tears of the only person he could call his other half, Thorin awoke, his voice rasping," Bil...bo?"

"Thorin?" Bilbo's eyes went from grieving to exaltant the moment their eyes met. It took a moment for him to understand the situation. "Thorin! I thought you'd gone!" He could have cried if he weren't already crying. It was shameful really, a grown hobbit like him, crying his eyes like a newborn within the last hour, though it had all been for good reason.

Thorin's hand upturned and grasped his fingers and he felt a thorn dig into his chest when he could not respond with a squeeze of his own. "It is you who should be gone." He frowned at the harsh words but the gentle relief in Thorin’s hoarse voice eased his wrinkles.

"I... stayed to make sure you would be alright." He knew he should have gone before Thorin threw him out a second time, but he could not move from the spot.  
Thorin sighed, closing his eyes, his breathing becoming labored. "I had thought you lost."

"You still have so little faith in me." Bilbo retracted his hand, suddenly uncomfortable with the lifelessness in his hands. He had no idea what his hands might feel like to someone else. Did they feel cool to the touch? Like that of a dead man? Or were they still warm, feigning life?

He carefully slid his hands into his pocket. A shiver ran down his back when his fingertip unknowingly brushed against the ring. Thorin’s eyes opened again, gripping him with invisible hands and drawing him in, like they always did.

“Bilbo Baggins, will you forgive me for being a faithless king.” Though they weren’t touching, warmth filled him from his sore toes to the tips of his muddy curls.

“Once you take your rightful place as King Under the Mountain, Thorin Oakenshield.” He watched as Thorin slid back into his dreams with a smile on his lips.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is a dream always just a dream?

Hovering by the door, Balin greeted him with kind eyes, but his shoulder sagged under heavy weights. 

Bilbo hesitated before brushing past the gentle dwarf. "I.. I will stay until it is for certain that Thorin, Kili and Fili will survive." He worried about the princes, they had yet to make motion or indication that their prognosis is improving. 

Balin's eyes creased, and a small smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, "They will be glad to know you are by their side. They see you as they would see family, lad."

Bilbo's eyebrows drew together as he searched Balin's eyes, his gaze darting from one eye to the other and back. For a moment he could not come up with a response, and merely shook his head, "I wish I could do more for them than sit and wait."

Balin's eyes wandered to Bilbo's hands, carefully tucked into his pocket, before they darted back up to his face, "There is little any of us can do but wait." 

Before Bilbo could let the words settle in, Bofur's friendly face made an appearance poking out from behind one of the tents. "Bilbo!" He called as he dashed to his side and wrapped an arm around Bilbo's shoulder. "Look, I know y'er worried about the princes and all, but it's time for some food. Ye barely look like a hobbit any more without your tummy." The lighthearted joke lifted his spirit, but it was barely enough before the stone dropped back down to his toes. 

He saw the smoke coming from the top of a large makeshift tent, and Bofur's chest rose and fell heavily, heaving in a good whiff of the smell of cooking. Despite recent events, Bofur remained for the most part, unchanged, at least from the looks of it. He could barely tell the difference between the jovial tone now than the first time they met at Bag End. He supposed Bofur was simply better at hiding things than him. 

His stomach was certainly far emptier than any hobbit's stomach should be, but he felt neither the tug of hunger or the craving of senses at the smell of cooked food. He frowned and looked up at the tall mountain. The sun was barely peaking over the horizon now, brushing bright colors of gold, pink, orange, red and violet across the sky. The shadow of the great mountain slowly crept across the campsite, the darkness draping over the ground steadily. Again, a cold shiver ran down his spine. 

The inside of the tent was lit with lanterns, a warm orange glow, while the fire burned and food was heated. Bofur's guidance never left his shoulders and he found himself soon sitting in a stool slightly off to the side, where little attention would be accidentally granted. He couldn't help when self-depreciating thoughts came to mind to reason the position. 

His leg twitched, since his hands no longer responded, as he tucked his head into his chest, his lips pursed. 

Bofur returned quickly enough, a bowl of stew in one hand and surprisingly, a spoon in the other. Setting both down in front of him as he sat next to Bilbo, Bilbo suddenly wondered if he should get up to get his own food. He was just about to when Bofur said, "Open up!" And carefully blew the hot soup. 

Bofur smiled. "Ah, don't worry, Bilbo, I already ate. Come on now, ahhhhh." Bilbo's tense shoulders relaxed as he remembered Bofur was just a kindred soul. With a light blush on his cheeks, Bilbo opened up his mouth. 

The soup was hot, but was tasteless in his mouth. The savory spices and chucks of fresh stewed meat made no difference to him, though it should have. The feeling returned, blooming from the center of his chest like an uncomfortable air bubble filled with an unknown anxiety. It ran through his limbs, making even the pulsing of his blood feel like small splinters moving through his body, poised for pain at any moment. 

In his deep thought and Bofur's constant attention on his feeding, he forgot they were not alone in the tent. A look around relieved him when he saw that no one was paying all too much mind to Bofur feeding him and Bofur seemed to be having a jolly good time spoon feeding him. 

The prickles squeezing his chest relented briefly. 

It didn't return until he laid in the makeshift cot laid out for him next to Bofur, Bombur and Bifur. In the last few hours Bofur had taken it to be his job to take care of Bilbo, never straying too far from his side. He would have said it was considerate, but honestly, he felt overwhelmed. He wanted to be alone. To think. He hadn't had a chance to even breathe by himself since he left the healing tent. 

Oin had taken care of the split on his cranium, bandaging it up nicely for him before sending him off to get some rest. Bofur had been waiting patiently for him outside the tent. 

He listened to the now familiar sounds of snoring and heavy breathing coming from all around him. Had he not traveled months with a band of 13 dwarves, he would have found himself irate as he had been the first night on the road with said dwarves. Now, the sounds were comforting, a strange sort of lullaby. 

He stared up at the ceiling of the small tent. 

Then the prickling feeling began. In the shadowy corners of his vision, he saw a figure appear from the dust. Golden haired, dressed in richly colorful robes, with eyes that glowed like a cat's in the night, the elegant figure approached him. 

He tried to move his head for a closer look but found he was paralyzed. Fear rushed through him as his mind struggled further to awaken again, but the dream was already upon him. He was not sure why he was afraid, he only knew that he was. 

His perspective shifted as the fantasy melted into another. He was now standing as an outsider, a figure stood over the prone body in a dark tent. He realized it was him, albeit thinner and grimier than he remembered himself to be. The body was that of Thorin, though from this perspective he could not see his face. He only knew. 

The same golden figure from before appeared just over his shoulder, again seemingly appearing from the darkness and shadows. He watched with rapt eyes as arms surrounded him from behind and wrapped slender hands around his own. Then the light flowed from his finger tips, slipping into the king's mouth. 

Something in his mind told him he should look up, and when he did, he saw the fiery cat eyes staring back at him. In the back of his mind, he remembered praying that a god would hear his grief. 

A honey smooth voice rang in his mind as he awoke with a start, "Now it your turn to help me, Bilbo Baggins of Bag End." 

A cold sweat drenched his brow and back as Bofur's worried face came into focus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can anyone guess who the mysterious figure in Bilbo's dream is?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strange figures and the beginning of inexplicable events.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh! Sorry for taking so long with this update. I had a tough time writing the past few months. Unfortunately, I'm not a natural writer and words don't come easy to me. Thank you so much for the kudos!

Strong hands held him upright as a cool draught of ale trickled down his throat. The liquid grated against his parched flesh, and did nothing but inflame the irritation. He winced, turning his head away from the drink, shying away from Bofur's touch. Bofur didn't question the sudden change of comfort and gave Bilbo room, "Y'don't need to tell me anything, but if you want to talk about it, I'm here for ya, Bilbo." 

He nodded, looking away from Bofur's earnest face. Fidgeting on the cot, anxiety curled around his chest and pressed threatening to take his breath away. The dream had been clear and pristine, as if he hadn't dreamt it, but stood paralyzed, unable to react as he wished. He stared down at his hands. Had that been real? Had that been the truth? But the most important question was, who had that been. 

His thoughts were interrupted when Bombur snored himself awake and looked around, noticing Bofur and Bilbo sitting in the darkness. His cot groaned as Bombur shifted into a sitting position at the edge, then gave the two of them a quizzical glance. Yawning, he stretched, "What time is it?" 

Bofur stood up and peeked outside, from outside the flap, he said in a muffled voice, "About time for the sun to come up." 

He pulled his head back inside the tent and looked at his brother, "I suppose that means it's time fer breakfast soon. No rest fer the hungry." 

Bombur heaved himself onto his feet and nodded, "Back to work." Bilbo watched as Bombur's huge figure made its way out of the tent flap, on his way back to the makeshift 'kitchen'. 

He hurried after Bombur, "Hey, Bombur, do you mind if I help out with the cooking?" 

Bombur stopped and looked back between Bilbo and Bofur who stood behind Bilbo, with a pitying expression, and he uneasily rubbed his forehead. "Uh, hm... well Bilbo, I'd love to let you help, but a lot of the work... you need your hands for." 

Bilbo's shoulders sagged under an invisible weight. He turned his gaze to the ground, "Oh, right. I... sorry. Never mind then." He had forgotten for a moment that he would no longer be able to do even the simplest of tasks that he enjoyed or at least had skills in. He watched as Bombur left, the anxiety wrapping tighter and tighter around his chest. 

He jumped in his skin when Bofur's warm hand rested against his shoulder. He had forgotten Bofur. He wasn't sure why, but he felt wary of Bofur's kindness. Like a nib that wasn't made for the pen, Bofur's presence didn't grant him the sort of comfort he desired. Something was off. 

He was left behind when Bofur was called away after breakfast to help clear out the corpses. He had asked if he could help with that, but Bofur smiled at him and told him even with two good hands, the battlefield was no place for a hobbit. Even if it was covered in the bodies of the dead and not the live. Bofur dropped him off at Thorin's tent. 

Oin told him to keep the sleeping occupants company and to call for him if they made any sign of waking. Then Oin also left, to attend to the many others who were injured. 

In the silence, a thousand questions thundered in his head. He wrestled with his predicament and a way around it. He couldn't just sit around for the rest of his life, but he just couldn't think of a way to live a fulfilling life when he had no feeling in his hands. He would rather have his hands simple be cut off. In fact, he would cut his own hands off if he could rid himself the ugly reminder of his uselessness. 

He gasped as he reeled back at his thoughts. When had his thoughts become so morbid? He was not the sort to think amputation as a better option, nor self-mutilation. Yet here he was, seriously considering the prospect of sawing his hands off on the edge of some fallen dwarf's axe. He swiped his mouth with a wrist, feeling sick to his stomach. 

No, that wasn't an option. He couldn't let it be an option. He had to figure out the answer to the riddle, just like he had in the darkness of the goblin caves with the awful creature. 

A breeze rustled his hair and he turned around to see who had entered, but the tent was quiet. Hesitantly, he got onto his feet and opened the tent flap. He searched for someone who might have thought to enter but decided against it due to his presence. He was about to return to his seat next to Thorin's bed when he caught the golden fabric of his mysterious dream guest. He briefly watched it disappear beyond some tents and he stumbled after it. 

He needed to know who that had been. 

He ran as fast as his legs could carry him to the spot he saw the trailing robes. His sharp eyes caught the gold once more, further to the edge of camp, and he followed it into the forest. In any other case he would have thought twice about entering the forest, but he was desperate. He didn't realize where he was headed until he happened upon a small pond in a clearing. 

He stepped forward to the water's edge. His eyes flickered everywhere, searching for the glimmering cloak, but he found nothing in shadows of the tall trees. Frustrated, he turned back to return to Thorin's side, when he realized he had no idea where he was. He looked up at the sky and noticed the sunlight diminishing into dusk. How long had he been walking? He had not noticed the passage of time. 

He had thought only about 30 minutes to pass, but judging from the waning of the day, he had spent several hours walking. 

A snap of a twig had his heartbeat jumping in his chest and he whirled around to see who or worse what it was, but nothing appeared after a long stretch of silence. He brushed his hand to his side when he remembered he left Sting back at Thorin's tent, beside his little stool. He wouldn't have been able to use it anyways. 

He swallowed, glancing nervously at the edge of the forest and sat down next to the water. He peered across the mirror-like surface. He had no idea why he did it, but he decided to lean forward to look into the pond, at his reflection. He frowned when he saw his unfamiliar face on the pond's surface. His cheeks were too pronounced, there was a dark color under his eyes and an unsettling shine in his eyes. 

Another breeze grazed his skin and he looked up. Still nothing. Not one sound. 

He looked back down. 

And he was greeted with the face of the figure in his dream peering over his shoulder with him. Shocked, he threw a glance over his shoulder and saw nothing, but when he looked into the pond, he saw the figure there distinctly. 

Before the figure could leave or move or change, he blurted out, "Who are you?!" 

The mellifluous voice echoed in his head, "I have many names, Bilbo Baggins. Call me what you wish." 

Like the fluent tones of singing elves, the figure's voice had the same alluring quality, drawing him into the sounds and nuances. "What do you wish me to call you?" 

A bubbling laughter drowned his mind, "You may call me Annatar." 

Bilbo nodded, lulled by the sweetness of the voice and calming effect it had on his distraught thoughts. It was more powerful than the lull of alcohol without the disorientation. "What do you want with me?" His voice felt far away, and he barely had control over his tongue to form the words. 

"Only your help. Of course, I will reward you if your aid proves bountiful." 

Bilbo blinked, trying to grasp the words underlying meaning, but right now his mind was too lofty to recall his basic warning bells. "What do you need me to do?" 

"I will let you know, when the time comes, but for now, let no one know of our conversations. They may not believe it to be healthy." The glowing eyes held his gaze and he nodded slowly. He blinked, and when he open his eyes again, the figure was gone and replaced with bright stars. 

He stood up and brushed off the dirt from his hands and knees. And despite not knowing where he was, he found his way all the way back to camp.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the kudos and the encouragement, it's greatly appreciated!   
> I know there are plenty of mistakes in this, since I'm not a particularly great proofreader, so I appreciate the fact that people are actually putting up with it.   
> Don't worry, there's some action coming up soon!

At the sound of Bilbo's departure, Thorin stirred to consciousness, just barely awake to see Bilbo's back. Weakly, he lifted his arm, a desperate cry silent in his dry throat. He'd been having the same nightmare over and over again. 

Gold-sickness was rife in his poisoned mind, but from his detached perspective, he could see the events with clarity. He watched as he roared those vicious words to Bilbo, exiling him from his side as the battle's dawn approached. The battle was just as strenuous as it had been in reality, except sometimes he would battle strange orcs he'd never seen before, twice his height and a facade as ugly as rotting carrion, with white paint drying on their persons. Other times, he would be fighting against the elves and men, wrathful betrayal burning in his veins. And then there were the times he was in the body of an orc, battling himself. 

He remembered how the gold-lust diminished in the midst of battle. Each parry and blow was a fresh breath of air to his mind, clearing it and weighing him down with the guilt of falling victim to the very disease that destroyed his kingdom in the first place. However, in his dreams, he never regained his sanity, he fought for the sake of fighting. Throwing himself into the fray without a notion of self-preservation or a reason besides getting the Arkenstone back. 

He always tried to pull himself out of the nightmare around this time, but each time, he merely fell back into slumber, with another dream biting his heels. No, it was more of a nightmare, with the way it scorched his heart with bitterness. 

It always started with him waking up, just as he had done on the battlefield, with Dwalin screaming his name. He was carried to the tent where he filtered in and out of consciousness. Then somewhere in the middle of the confusion he remembered Bilbo, asking what had happened to him. Sometimes Balin told him Bilbo had left Erebor, already heading back to the peaceful hills of the Shire. Other times Oin solemnly told him that Bilbo had fallen victim to the orcs on the battlefield. 

In those dreams, he felt as though a part of his soul had been cleaved with a poison-laced axe, prolonging his pain with a slow, drawn-out death. He never knew if his sleeping body presented any changes, but those were the times when he wept. Bedridden, with his chest bleeding forth, he wept for the flame of life snuffed out in his heart. 

But the worst nightmares were when Bilbo was alive and brought to his side, yet no matter how much he begged and asked for forgiveness, Bilbo said nothing to him. He didn't even look at him. The only thing he said was, "Goodbye, Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain." And he turned his back away from him. And although he usually woke after that, he knew that in those dreams he would never see Bilbo again, at least not as his treasured One, but as a stranger. Just a hobbit who had his home invaded by 13 rude dwarves. And he knew he would continue to live on with an empty gap in his heart that no one and nothing could fill. And the bitterness would eat away at him until he was nothing more than a shell of himself. 

In those dreams, he woke unsettled and his chest threatening to rip open the stitches. 

And now, he watched as Bilbo's back disappeared and he couldn't help but have the same feeling pull him apart in two. But as he always did these day, he fell back asleep. 

\--

Bilbo stumbled back into camp, little leaves sticking to the mud on his feet. No one noticed him return, just as they had overlooked him when he had left. He made his way back to Thorin's tent. He had been looking at the ground as he made his way through the camp, not wanting to attract attention but he looked up as he approached the tent. Bofur, Balin and Bifur all stood around the entrance, and Bofur seemed to be distressed. It was an odd sight. In all his time traveling with Bofur, he hadn't really been the type to get distressed. 

He carefully made his way to the group, "What's... happening? Did something happen to Thorin?" 

Bofur spun so quick, he almost made Bilbo dizzy, but when Bilbo was suddenly smothered in a great, big hug, he definitely felt a bit faint. He squeezed himself out of the embrace and stepped back. Bifur looked relieved, and Balin seemed tired. "We've been looking for you, laddie. Nobody knew where you went, half of us feared you tried to find your way back to the Shire on your own." 

He frowned. He had said he would stay. Did even they have so little faith in him? Before he could refute, Bofur had a hand on his shoulder and countered, "I told you he wouldn't have just left like that. Bilbo's not the sort to just leave like that." 

He sighed, then dragged his hands into the frayed pockets of his waistcoat. He felt a jolt of coolness when the tip of his finger brushed against the ring in his pocket. He gasped and pulled his hand out of his pockets again, staring down at them. The three dwarves looked down at him with curiosity but didn't say anything. He had forgotten about the ring. He could have sworn, he had felt it in his pocket, but how was that possible? He couldn't even feel the fabric of the pocket. He slipped his fingers back into the pocket and sure enough, there was a spark of feeling when the cool metal brushed against the tip of his middle finger. 

He clamped his jaw down tight then looked up. "Sorry, I just forgot I don't have control over my hands." That seemed to quell any questions the three had. The topic was now taboo apparently. An uncomfortable silence fell between them. 

After a few moments, Bilbo cleared his throat and straightened his back, "I'm feeling a bit tired, so I'm going to head to bed, if you don't mind that is." 

None of them had the heart to tell him no, since there was nothing for him to do. Bofur, like always, led him to his cot and he pretended to lie down to sleep. Yet, the moment he lied down, fatigue crept over his eyes and he fell into a deep dream, where his golden companion reappeared once more.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo dreams some more, sealing his fate and the dwarves finally return to the halls of Erebor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay! To be honest I had no idea what I was doing with this story, but I was recently inspired when I watched the Desolation of Smaug. Thank you for reading thus far and I hope you enjoy!

Pheasant eggs marinated in succulent sauce decorated the palette of dark roasted pork, the flesh soft to the tongue, melting as though butter right off the bone. Spritely green leafs garnished the salads, laden with strawberries, ripe and red, blueberries, plump and sweet, with slivers of exotic fruits he'd never seen before, such as the tender green stars. Beyond the garden greenery, casseroles, pies, biscuits, cakes, and dishes he couldn't even name was spread before him. 

Long fingers touched his knuckles in the gentlest manner, and he relished in his ability to feel it with the sensitive hairs. The elegant, undecorated hands reduced his own to childish state, as did the ginger tucking of his curly hair behind his ear like a mother would. "Please, take what you desire from the table. All is for your sake." His ears tingled, grasping for more of the lush depth underlined by sibilant echoes. 

His hands moved on their own accord, picking out a strange, seeded fruit that bled dark blood, yet looked the part of a ruby jewel, inlaid in an orb. Mesmerized by the feeling he so dearly missed with every part in his body, he ran the tips of his fingers along the textured shell, digging his fingernails into the surprisingly juicy bits inside. He dug out the gem flesh and the saccharine tartness blossomed on his tongue as he licked his fingers. 

"It's delicious," His own voice felt as distant as his hands that moved on their own accord. "What is it?" 

His eyelashes fluttered when the voice whispered close to his ear, "That, my dear Bilbo, is a pomegranate." 

The edges of his lips curled up in what had to be the first true smile he'd attempted since... well since he lost his hands. He turned his head to properly thank his host, but what his eyes saw, words could not reach his tongue. In his past visions, the figure was golden haired, he had known that much. Not the pale silver of the Elvenking of Mirkwood, but the iridescent shimmer of true gold, molten liquid in the forges of Erebor's belly. It draped the shoulders in waves, the curves reminiscent of the winding path a river takes. 

Not even the slitted pupils, which had grown to globular shape in the dim lighting was much of a stunning detail, though they too shone as dragon fire did. No, nothing quite compared to the elegant cut of flesh to create ephermeral angles, as though drawn by the Valar themselves. Impossible to declare a particular gender by any set of criteria, holding both the softness of a woman, but the firmness of a man. Beautiful was not a word that could describe in circumspection. 

The corners of Annatar's eyes creased into a smile, "Does my appearance not suit you?" 

A moment of silence passed before Bilbo could pick up the meaning of the simple words, his mind not quite able to process much beyond the aesthetic perfection before him, in a blushing stutter, he managed, "I was overwhelmed. Sorry. I've just... never seen anyone quite like you." He did not think even the elves of Lorien were of similar classification. 

"A compliment I shall dearly receive." A hand enveloped his, warming him to the center of his stomach. He looked down at the hand which had shrunk to a similar size to his, and when he looked back, he saw yet another face of equal allure. It was the shape of a hobbit, but with the same golden hair, brilliant eyes, and a phantasmagoric aura. As though he were one of his kind. A halfling, a hobbit of the Shire. 

Now the surge of joy found no dam to suppress the grin from spreading on his face. He upturned his hand to grasp the other's hand. The fingers squeezed back, "I take it that you appreciate this form better?" 

Bilbo nodded, "How did you do that?" 

"Appearance has never been a stagnant existence for me. I prefer malleability." Fingers brushed through Bilbo's hair once more, and he sighed, muscles relaxing. 

In that moment, he yearned the same tenderness from another. Someone sturdier, though right now, his life rested on the edge of a thread, with more darkness in his features, not with malice of ill intent, but the sort of solemn demeanor, hardened in the weathering times of wandering and loss. And the thought of said being, drained him of the joy he momentarily had felt, for he should not look where there is no hope. Thranduil had been wise in one manner. 

The tendrils of the dream unraveled around him in his sadness and he was drawn back to the surface of reality, where none could comfort him. He blinked, eyes sore with fatigue as if he had not slept. Morning had yet to arrive. Today the dwarves would be returning to the halls of Erebor, to begin at last the rebuilding. He rose from his bed, shuffling to the tent flap to get a breathe of fresh air to relieve the uncomfortable pressure in his chest. 

The crisp air spread through his lungs, but aided little with alleviating his discomfort. He found it difficult to straighten his back, to unfurl his shoulders. Any movement of the kind ached his joints. He groaned, perhaps it was the fault of a makeshift cot. 

The tent flap rustled open and Bofur crawled out, rubbing his eyes with his gloves, mouth gaping in a yawn to capture flies. "Good mornin', Bilbo!" His breathe made puffs of white in the air between them. Bilbo held his breathe, avoiding the stench of stale morning mouth. 

"Good morning, Bofur." At another time, he would have smirked at the dwarf's hobbitish pleasantries, but these were dark hours for Bilbo and he found no mirth. "I'm going to go to Thorin's tent, come get me when it's time to go." Bofur nodded, sluggish to the uptake and Bilbo curtly made his way, his arms stiff by his side, hands awkwardly dangling. 

This time he didn't venture out, he remained in the tent with Thorin until dawn broke and light gathered outside and the general clamor of woken dwarves filled the muffled air. He did not emerge for food nor water, lacking the desire for either. He imagined himself wiping the grit and sweat from Thorin's brow, keeping his dark hair kempt, despite knowing how intimate that would be for a dwarf. 

The Ri brothers detailed to him the customs of courting in dwarvish manner one cold night when sleep did not find them easily and unrest brewed between the company. It helped to talk about the familiar things in life, like his garden and the strolling hills of the Shire. The others chimed in occasionally, but with Ori's presence, correction or censorship was unnecessary, the bookish dwarf detailed just enough to maintain balance between dwarven secrecy and enlightenment for those unaccustomed. 

Thorin stirred, his eyelids going through the long process of drawing themselves open and when they did, Bilbo couldn't help but watch them focus on him, pretending this was a more intimate situation than a cripple caretaker watching over a bedridden patient. He said in a gentle voice, "Good morning, Thorin." 

"Bilbo." The name was said with such desperation, Bilbo almost thought it was not Thorin's voice, but it was and his heart rustled dryly in his chest, quivering at the slightest hint of affection. Be still you wretched thing. Thorin attempted to rise from his prone position, grunting sharply at the pain. Bilbo lurched forward to stop him, but the sight of his flaccid hands kept him at bay, unable to do anything but mutter a word of prevention. He didn't need to as the physical strength of Thorin was not infinite and had a limit. Thorin collapsed onto the bedding again, a groan escaping his lips, unwanted in the Thorin's ears. Settled again, he reached out to Bilbo to brush his fingers on pale knuckles. 

Bilbo flinched at the touch, even though he could not feel it, which only made the reaction worse. Thorin's hands yanked away, the dark brows high in surprise, which returned to their stern position, hooding his eyes in clouds once more. He tucked his hands away and Bilbo wanted to scream at him that he didn't mean to flinch and to lay his hands on him once more, but those words never came, caught in a cage in his throat. 

Silence hung around them, choking the air around them, and though Thorin escaped through the doors of sleep, Bilbo had only his own mind to return to. The younger Durins had yet to awake and he feared they were beyond reach of the mortal world. Perhaps he had to be left paralyzed if he wanted all three Durins to survive. Or perhaps his life. 

His spinning thoughts spiraled into a tornado in his head, ringing in his ears. Down was the only direction he took. It wasn't until Dwalin lumbered his way into the tent with Dori and half the company that he broke from the trance. Helplessly, he stood by as they carried Thorin, Fili and Kili out of the tent to transport them to Erebor. Oin had gone in ahead at daybreak to clear out a decent place for healing, though he had fussed and hissed the past few hours how none of the three should be moved. 

Bofur handed him his things, packed neatly for him. He took it without thanks or much response at all. 

Somehow, the trek back into Erebor seemed thrice as long and strenuous as he first remembered. He had to take several breaks, his breathe shallow and thin, as if his lungs couldn't quite expand in his chest. Bofur stayed close by, occasionally supporting with a hand on his elbow. They arrived much later than even the laden crew. 

Bilbo collapsed against a wall once they entered Erebor, his breathing labored and color drained from his face. He felt faint. Bofur pressed something cool to his forehead, and realized that he had been sitting there for much longer than he thought. Bofur's rolling words droned in his ears, but they meant nothing to him. Comprehension was secondary to his need for air, which he had little of in his chest. 

It must have been an eternity until he broke free of the crushing sensation of being drowned by air, and finally he could understand Bofur's word that trickled in his ears, "... so there I was standing in the rain in nothing but a loincloth and a nutcracker in hand. Oh! Bilbo, you're okay!" The statement was more of a question than anything, but it satisfied Bofur to see him nodding in return. 

His tongue was thick in his mouth, "What happened?" He felt like he had gone through yet another battle. 

"You had a panic attack. You started hyperventilating when we got to the gates. You've been sitting here for about an hour or so. Thankfully this isn't the first time I've had to handle these sorts of afflictions. Bifur used to have them after he returned, though he's much more violent." Bofur's warm smile soothed his uneven heartbeat and he sighed. He was exhausted. 

He stared at his dirt coated toes, silent. Then he mumbled, "Thank you." He didn't elaborate what his gratitude was for. He didn't need to. Bofur understood.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Left alone in solitary and darkness, Bilbo has only one path to take.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to all those who have commented, bookmarked and left kudos so far! I'm sorry I'm not a very responsive writer. Whispers... I did not know I could respond to comments. Omg, how dumb am I. I will try to finish this fic even if it kills me to do so, but I hope you still enjoy it. Thanks again everyone!!!

The days to come were busy for everyone except Bilbo. 

After the battle's end, the dwarrows set upon the mountain like ants recovering their hill after a heavy rain; restless and eager to get their home fixed despite the exhaustion that tugged on their bodies. The rubble left behind in Smaug's wake was cleared out of the main hall, to allow for the dwarves to seek shelter, temporary as it was. By the second day post-bellum, the dwarrows had returned to the Lonely Mountain's embrace and she welcomed them under her wing once more. Home again, the dwarrows focused on opening the route to the chambers and living areas which thankfully had been dealt a minor amount of damage in Smaug's residence. 

Having proven themselves in high regards, the Company's members found themselves with prestigious positions in addition to their new found wealth. In Thorin's stead, Balin acted as ambassador to the people of Laketown and Mirkwood, negotiating the terms of peace and restoration, however slow-going and stubborn those may be. Dwalin suited himself with organizing the remaining military forces, reassigning them with the heavy lifting work in the various parts of Erebor. Oin begrudgingly accepted the aid of elves with taking care of the wounded, though under his grumbles and tutting, he appreciated the help. He had been running around like a mad man for the past few days. Gloin smoothly took charge of the financial aspects of Erebor's well being, diligently counting and apportioning where need be. Dori, Nori, and Ori did what was necessary to get the mountain running smoothly. Bombur fed the masses, three times a day, with love and joy. And Bifur and Bofur was assigned the task of leading the miners to assess the damages done to the main areas of destruction. 

Leaving Bilbo, in his own little chamber with all the time in the world and nothing to distract him except the loneliness that matched his crippled hands in certainty. Yet, he was not alone when he slept. When the dreams entered his mind, he was never alone. And for that reason, Bilbo took to sleeping like a child to sweets. 

On the third night, they lied beneath the starlight and the empty space where the moon shines, their breathes mingling in the night sky like briefly lived clouds. A warm hand covered Bilbo's and he turned his head to smile at his golden companion. The warmth spread across his side as he was curled up into a tight embrace, their skin smoothly sliding against each other. Bilbo touched Annatar's hair, a habit he hasn't seemed to be able to stop. It was soft like flower petals under his fingers, and smelled of burning firewood. 

"I do not wish to wake up." His power over his dreams had grown as he slept more. Now he could stay lucid in his dreams for far longer, clinging onto the fantasy by the threads, afraid to face reality. 

The embrace tightened around his shoulders and he sighed, the tension lifting from his chest, as the voice said, "Neither do I." 

"But I will wake sometime," Bilbo shivered and looked back into the enthralling lure of Annatar's eyes. It was easy when he dreamed to forget Thorin. In his dreams, he found comfort in Annatar's arms that he feared he would never receive from Thorin. Annatar did not treat him like a fireplace poker, used when necessary but never revered or treasured. 

When Bilbo awoke again, it was to the sound of a fist pounding on his door. Irate, he grumbled the whole way from the bed to the door, which he yanked open with both of his wrists after some struggle, growling, "What is it?" 

Bofur's concerned expression was quickly replaced with confusion and he stood with his arm still awkwardly raised and his mouth open. "Bilbo!" he said after he found himself again and put his arm down by his side. 

Bilbo frowned, shivering at the cold and folded his arms over his chest, tucking his hands into the folds. "Well?" His voice echoed sharply down the stone corridor, contrite. 

Bofur scratched his head, "Well, just checking on how yer doin, since I've been busy and all. Have ye been eatin alright?" 

"Yes, I have been eatin alright, without hands to hold a spoon or a cup or any sort of cutlery at all. Yes. Of course, because it takes so much effort to get this door open. Thank you for your concern but I am well and fine on my own." Something similar to a string snapped in Bilbo and all he felt in place of friendship was the cold bite of abandonment and betrayal. They had all betrayed him when they spoke no words of defense when Thorin threw him out like a spent rag. They had betrayed him when they turned their backs on him. They... he spun on his heel and shut the door on Bofur's nose before the dwarf could respond and stalked back to his bed. 

Frustrated, he curled up in his bed, drawing the covers over his head and nothing could staunch the flow of tears dripping from his eyes. All that remained relaxed was his lifeless hands that lied gracefully in front of his face, the fingers slightly curled in their natural position. He hated them. He didn't know who or what yet, but he hated them. The black stone in his chest grew, feeding off of the days spent in solitude and his own inability to achieve productivity. "I just want to be able to feel again." He sobbed into the pillows. 

A gentle touch on his shoulders made him turn around, but when he did so no one stood there. Yet he knew exactly who it was. He felt the darkness in his soul recede ever so slightly as he let the waves of drowsiness take him. 

Annatar held both of his hands in his own, simply gazing upon him, and he was comforted. "I wish I could stay here with you forever." Bilbo heard himself whisper and he realized it was true even though he hadn't know where that comment came from. 

"If you wish it, I can make it so." The corners of Annatar's eyes creased ever so beautifully that Bilbo could do nothing but give himself up to him. He nodded and the hands on his knuckles, pressed gently, tugging him towards Annatar's chest. "Just let me take over for you." 

Lulled into a trance, unable to differentiate between dream and reality, Bilbo nodded absentmindedly, staring distantly and traced the patterns in Annatar's clothing. "Alright." And so Bilbo sealed his fate as the light enveloped him in darkness.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleep is for the weak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long hiatus and for any mistakes in my writing. These chapters are being published raw.

He does not sleep.

When he does, his dreams are plagued by the ghosts of his regrettable actions, the shame clings onto him until he wakes, weighing heavily on his chest. Sometimes, even when he is awake, in the peripheries of his vision, he sees glimpses of golden curls, bouncing away. It frightens him, when he jerks his head around so quickly that his neck is stiff for the rest of the day, even knowing it is just his imagination. Bilbo would never show himself to him again.

He works instead.

Long hours are spent in the Long Hall where he verbally combats with dwarves, men and elves alike. Balin urges for peace and hope of prosperity, but he is blinded by his own clouds that loom over his head. His wound has not fully healed. The dwarves want to live in the Lonely Mountain, yet expect excavations to magically happen in a matter of days. The men want gold in exchange for nothing but gratitude. And the insufferable elves of Mirkwood want silver, paid in haughty hubris of their King.

He wants them to all leave.

When his meetings are done, the others fed up with the circular logic they all police, leaving in hopes of respite in food and rest, he returns not to his bedroom, but the forge. The forges were the first to be cleared and fixed. Dwarrows blood flowed with the molten metal and the pounding of anvils as necessary as a beating heart. The forges were where their Maker had created them, and that was where they would be reborn.

In the dark and heat, he makes a ring.

It is not a dwarven ring, which are created in the likeness of dwarves themselves - robust, with enormous inlaid gems, banding each finger. The ring, he hoped, was better suited for a hobbit, who prefered the earth rather than the rock, the flowers to gems. Instead of a thick, straight cut width, he molded the shape into three leaves that stemmed from a thin band that wrapped around the flesh. At the moments where two of the leaves met the stems, he added two small but brilliant forget-me-nots of subtle sapphires. On the other leaf, he molded a single hyacinth cut from the deepest of amethyst.

"You need rest, Thorin."

He didn't need to turn around to know how deeply the wrinkles in the tattoos ran on Dwalin's forehead. He didn't need to see his face to know the disappointment in the inflection of the 'r' in his name. He didn't need to hear him say it to know it was true. He had bags under his eyes. They were dark and thunderous, but he'd rather the numbness of long waking hours than the dredge of dreams he would have to claw through if he slept. There were too many things he could dream about.

Like his nephews still bedridden.

They had not waken even after three weeks in the mountain. And he had put them there. Yesterday, he recieved a message from Dis. He had not the heart to break the seal yet. It still sits on top of his desk, staring at him as he does his paperwork, reminding him of the frailty of his mind - his deficiencies. It is a relentless presence, like Dwalin. He finally sets down his tools, leaving his work behind to follow Dwalin up through the mountain to his bedchambers. He suspects he would lead him straight into the bed and under the covers. He keeps his eyes forward, legs carrying him without guidance. If Dwalin was speaking, he had no idea what words he had said. His mind was wholly blank.

Until Bilbo.

He blinked, unable to believe his eyes. He nearly rubbed them, just to make sure he was seeing right. Dwalin's voice confirmed Bilbo's existence, though with great surprise as if he hadn't seen the hobbit for a long time as well. Perhaps it was the long absence, but he almost thought Bilbo seemed different. Of course he looked nothing like the bachelor they met in Bag End. He was much too thin, barely even a skeleton. His eyes had sunken, but more importantly, they seemed to glow.

A thin smile spliced Bilbo's gaunt face, darkening his eyes, "Hello... King under the Mountain." THe enunciation was all off. It was all he needed to know that this was not Bilbo anymore, but someone of a darker origin. He exchanged a brief look with Dwalin, though he didn't linger too long, his eyes desperately wanted to soak in Bilbo's face, no matter the change.

After a long minute, he realized he never responded, "Hello, Master Baggins." He nearly said Burglar, but the word held too much history for them. He still cringed at what he had said and done to Bilbo after the Arkenstone business. He dismissed Dwalin, who was glad to leave. It was late and he had heard rumors of Ori having a new body guard who looked uncannily like the Captain of the Guards. "What brings you to my chambers."

Before he even finished the sentence, Bilbo spoke, "I need a favor from you."

He nearly questioned Bilbo, but for all he's done, a favor was the least he could do for Bilbo, so he simply nodded. Bilbo took his hand in his.

It was deathly cold.

And pulled him into his room, leading him to his bed. Drawing back the thick covers, Bilbo said, "Go to sleep."

He frowned at the simple command. It was the one thing he dreaded of all things, and yet, here was the source of his troubles telling him to sleep as if it were easy. He supposed it would not be a favor if it was easy. The cold hands began helping his clothes off his body. He helped by yanking off his boots without bothering to untie them. He at least, was warming up.

Bilbo's eyes never left his.

Like the flames that lit the Dead Marshes, he was mesmerized into a trance. When cold lips brushed against his, a dim part of his mind reminded him of the chill of the dead, yet he could not care less as he laid a hand in the soft golden curls.

His lips quivered as they parted from Bilbo's.

He wanted to apologize, again. And again. And again. He did not deserve the sprouting happiness that bloomed from such a simple gesture. He did not deserve it at all. But his eyes were heavy and the hours and days of barely sleeping settled on his head swiftly. He could not stay awake, as his limbs became heavier, his body falling into the softness of his bed. Settling into the soft down of his pillows, and the touch of Bilbo's kiss still lingering on his lips, he closed his eyes.

And he slept.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erebor is at the brink of civil war with the death of an important figure, and another is found alive despite popular belief.

He peered down at the stony face of dwarven king, letting his eyes remark over the straightness of the bridge, and the slight curve of the cheekbone. Dwarves. Peculiar creatures, interesting as individuals, yet utterly unremarkable as a species. Too stubborn, too gruff and definitely too short. He rocked on his heels, firmly clasping his hands behind his back. Well, that takes care of the Line of Durin. Pity he couldn't have just ended their miserable lives, Would have been easier. But no, he made a deal and even he couldn't break one of those.

Now, onto more important matters.

\--

It was chaos. No, that might be the wrong word for it, but vocabulary was always Balin's territory. His was security.

FUCK.

He supposed he couldn't even say that anymore. Not with the way things are...

Warm arms wrapped around his shoulders, bringing his hands away from his face and to his chest. "You're going to go bald if you think too hard."

He hunched his shoulders more. "I'm already bald."

A river of laughter bubbled from behind him, soothing his restless chest. "I know. I like it that way." The hands slipped from his chest and ran across the inked skull. "There's still hope. Thorin, Fili and Kili are still alive, they could wake up at any time."

He stood up, his hands clenched into tight fists, all the static in his lungs returning in a flash. "That's the whole problem! They've been asleep for months with no signs of waking up! Our men are dying left and right, and there are rumors circulating that it is Dain's doing."

"Lady Dis will arrive soon. She will set things straight."

The doors to their room exploded open, a breathless Nori tumbling into the room. He didn't need to say anything for the air to chill several degrees. Dwalin didn't need to say anything for everyone in the room to know how terrified he was. There was nothing he could say, but they all needed to hear it.

"Dis is dead." Nori's thin voice was enough to cut through them just as deeply as a knife wound in the gut.

Dwalin and Ori stood side by side, hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder. It would be a long and tedious fight.

\--

It was chaos. Brilliant, beautiful, bleak chaos and every bit of it was delicious to the craving in his borrowed bones. He wanted more. No, he needed more. His obtuse feet carried him silently through the maintenance tunnels and the air ducts that were just big enough for him to duck into. There was one last piece of the puzzle he needed to set into place.

The duct line traveled under the earth, opening up halfway to Laketown. Two hours in the dark tunnels and look murky air filled his lungs softly once more. He pushed his way to the surface, breathing deep the air of freedom with real, physical lungs.

Bright eyes scouring the dark landscape, he traveled quickly under the cover of the shadows to the Lake edge. The moon passed its zenith, falling towards the horizon as the water lapped at the tips of his toes. Without a falter in his step he pushed into the water, submerging, shutting mouth and nose to the rush of water. When he was deep enough, he pushed off the lake bed and swam deeper and deeper until a hole widened in the shore shelf, where he entered. A lazy current swept in the opposite direction, but his wide feet propelled him forward like flippers. His lungs were smaller, he realized.

It burned. What a surprising feeling. He could almost die down here. Not really. With the last of his resistance, he broke the surface of the water, gasping, air hurtling into his chest as he climbed onto shore. He hacked and coughed, the sudden intake irritating his throat. How utterly distasteful. He would have to make this body more suitable later.

It was when his breathing settled into wet gasps that he noticed another pair of lungs, labored and wispy, like a broken forge bellow.

So his predictions had been right.

He straightened his back, squaring his shoulders, a small self-indulgent smile on stolen lips. "Dragon."

"Burglar."

He chuckled, shaking his head, "Oh, no no no, little kitten, I have been many things, but a burglar has never been one." His eyes searched the depths of the cavern, but even his enhanced sight was no match without some aid. In here, there was nothing but the sound of breathing and the stench of burnt tar. The smell of dried dragon blood.

"Who are you...?" The timbre resonated against the rock, confusing his sense of direction. Where was the dreadful creature?

He rolled his eyes, turning slowly around to get some sort of bearing. "Now I'm just offended. Has everyone forgotten me around here? What does it take for someone to recognize me? Just because I change my look and my hair a few times. It's not like I tried to destroy Arda only a few hundred years ago. For Morgoth's sake!"

A heavy silence hung from the stalagmites and crystalline ceiling, "Sauron perished in that war, Isildur destroyed him. You could not possibly be the same."

WIth a burst of fury, he threw his hands up in the air, "By the Valar, why does EVERYBODY think he killed me! I cannot be killed by some mortal man's sword. He only chopped off my finger." His right index finger twitched.

Finally a pair of eyes popped open, fire red orbs filling the darkness in a dim tantalizing light. He smiled sweetly, bringing his hands behind his back once more. "Finally, you show yourself."

Now that some light filled the cavern, he could see with as much clarity as a bright shining day at noon. The reptilian features had all but faded away, until only a few scales remained inlaid like jewels along the jaw line and cheekbone. What a marvelous beauty, a shame he hadn't taken him as a new look. He had the bone structure every elf king would pay diamonds and armies for. If history had written itself differently, perhaps this dragon would have been a king.

He stepped closer to the dragon. "Your wound still festers." A jewel encrusted ring crunched underfoot. A dragon would always be a dragon no matter its state.

The creature shifted its large weight amongst its remaining gold. "It will heal."

"And how long do you suppose that would take. I suppose with your insipid mind you thought perhaps if you sit here for a few days, rest, you'll be all fixed, ready to take back your little treasure trove of a mountain in no time at all. But guess what. It's been months. Even a blind man with no arms or legs would be able to tell you that you are weaker than a newborn suckling. Your appearance only being the second of the most obvious tells." He made his way through the carpet of jewels and coins to a man's arms length to the dragon's propped up figure.

It looked less than pleased by the proximity, drawing back it's lips into a snarl. He rolled his eyes, "Let me take a look."

"No." The figure's wings curled tighter around the body, blocking both visually and physically.

"Do you WANT to die here?" He snapped back, pulling back at the giant wing.

Reluctantly, the wing gave way. He wasn't sure if it was because the dragon was relenting or simply too weak to resist. If it was the latter of the two, the condition was worse than he thought. As resilient as dragons were, they were not immortal like some liked to believe. The wound was black with infection and hot to the touch. The grimace was enough to tell him it was tender as well. However, it was not a fatal wound. Fire-drakes had two pairs of lungs, allowing them the unique ability to breathe fire.

They sat ontop of each other, the true lungs settled deep within the chest, protected by the ribs as well as the infernal lungs that wrapped around slightly from the top. The arrow had gone through the left infernal lung, which the dragon was smart enough to cauterize with a deep breathe after pulling the arrow out - which had been done in haste and little skill.

He would be surprised if the dragon would be able to breathe proper fire again. It would be too painful. He sighed. It would take work to fix. He wouldn't be able to simply wave a hand and heal it. "Can you swim?"

The dragon simply stared, a brow raised in question of sanity.

He batted a hand away when the dragon tried to shy away, "Can you at least stand?"

There was a grunt before joints, stiff mucles and flesh unbuckled and unfurled into a full height - weight supported by the cavern wall behind him. From his tiny stature, the dragon was a giant, more than twice his height possibly even three. He supposed he would be about average elven height. With that face. That would do just perfectly.

The upright position did not last long and the dragon collapsed at his feet again in pain, a high whine in his throat, short of breath. "I will bring you some food and medicine next time. It would be good for you to learn how to swim again. This is no place for healing."

The dragon said nothing as he slipped back into the water.

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plagues and flames

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Sorry for the incredibly long wait for this chapter. I don't have good excuses, so I won't waste your time. Please enjoy as this story continues!

"Could I be of service?" Groans and moans filled the infirmary, the stone walls trapping the sickness to breed claustrophobia and discomfort among visitors. He found it rather satisfying. All it had taken was a few well placed rats in the air ducts, where their fetid decay attracted all the right sorts of plagues. He commended himself for his effective yet ambiguous innovation. No one would suspect he ever had a hand in the matter. They would find the carcasses and assume the pests had been led to their own demise from the poison they used as traps. The keepers had little knowledge in the intelligence and resilience of the rat-kind, for even the dragon could not keep them out. 

He kept his hands tucked behind him as he made his way to his friend, Oin the Healer. He snickered in his mind at the thought of asking a dwarf for advice or aid in matters regarding health and well being. They could barely tell the difference between a simple cold, and a pneumatic infection. Though, he would give the old deaf fool for having a snot speck of acumen to mix together the ingredients for an 'ointment'. Saved him the time and energy of using his own abilities. 

The dwarf held the ear piece to his ear and hollered, "What'd you say? Speak louder, can't you see I'm busy?" 

He stood on his tiptoes and spoke loudly into the metal piece, "I'd like to help!" 

Oin grinned and slapped on the back, "Why didn't you say that sooner. Coulda used you hours ago." He handed him a tub filled with gray, filthy water, and a pus crusted rag. "We need clean water and rags. There's more over there." A thumb jutted towards the back corner of the room, where the buckets were stacked and the pile of dirty rags kept piling. "Need them all replenished." 

Holding the poor excuse of fabric and the container of disease infested water at a distance from himself, he hurried to empty the contents into the sewage drains located in the washroom next door. With a sneer when a droplet of the water splashed onto one of his borrowed toes, he scrubbed the rag in the forge heated stream beds with a pumice scrub. The bucket received the same punishment, which came with a hefty cost on the hobbit's soft skin. By the time he was finished, the hands were red and scraped raw. He examined his work with careful eyes, noting he could actually see the whiteness in the fabric and the silver in the bucket. These would do. 

Returning to the infirmary, he made his way to the back corner, slipping past the counter of mortar and pestles, filled with freshly ground ointment. He picked up the second bucket and dumped the stale water into another. Checking over his shoulder at the preoccupied healer, he made a second pass at the ointments, then disappeared with the buckets and rags. 

Later, rather than suspecting Bilbo for the disappearance, Oin wondered if his memory was dulling just as his hearing had. After all, he was certain, that Bilbo had lost feeling in his hands. Had he just imagined it? Or had Bilbo healed? He shook his head, mulling over the past few weeks and months. He couldn't recall. As he made a new batch, the doubt crept into his mind, infecting his memories with tall shadows. Perhaps that was why no one seemed to be getting better. Maybe, he was no longer fit to be a healer. 

With the clean bucket and rags in hand, he journeyed back to the lake where he met with a difficult problem. His parcels would not survive the swim to the underwater cave. With a sharp intake of breath, he grumbled as he wrapped the ointment up in the rags, just enough for it to fit into his mouth, then stuffed the material into his mouth. Clamping his lips shut, his cheeks puffed comically with the fabric and bitter herbs, he grabbed the bucket and slowly stepped into the water, keeping it upside down. 

As he sank deeper underwater, the bucket trapped air inside, just enough for him to keep his nose out. The swim was less laborious in comparison to the first attempt, and he emerged from the lake, package safe and mostly dry, save for the dampness of saliva. He extracted the rags from his mouth and gingerly pried away the first layer of rags. 

His eyes strained in the darkness searching for signs of life. Had the beast died in his brief absence? He couldn't have been gone for more than three hours. Had he put too much faith in the fickle being? This could set back his plan for years. He straightened his back and concentrated on the other senses. He couldn't hear anything but the drum of blood in his ear. His nose could barely differentiate between the smell of wet stone and the petrichor that ran down into the cavern. He needed to free himself from these confounded blockages. 

Drawing a deep breath and centering his soul in the borrowed shell, he cleared the passage in the short nasal cavity, and scraped the cotton from the hobbit's ears. Sounds and smells rushed into his mind and he couldn't imagine how the being had ever lived before. In comparison, the previous owner mind as well have been born without ears and a sealed olfactory passage. As if opening his eyes for the first time after years of blindness, his nose filled with the sour odour of deteriorating health. It wasn't all that different from the pungent suffocation he felt in the infirmary. 

So he'd been right. The same plague that had begun in the mountain had made it's way here in the dank hole. There must be a vent that led straight into the cavern. Probably how there was so much air in here. With sharpened ears, he heard the quiet plips of water droplets falling from the stalagmites, the scuttle of a thousand feet of a millipede, and the sluggish beat of a weakened heart. Hurriedly he made his way to the sound of the dying creature and knelt down in the dirt, nearly falling into the water. 

He spread his hands across the body then dragged it away from the water. He tsked at the lack of response and pressed an ear to the chest, avoiding the injured region. The heart was still beating, but the true lungs were barely letting in air, instead a trickle of water shuddered amidst the branches. The moronic beast had tried to swim but didn't make it far before succumbing to weakness and nearly drowning. At least it had sense to pull itself out of the water. 

He set his precious cargo on the ground next to him as he used his hands to find the end of the sternum where the two ribcages joined, then shifted his location to sit a thumbs length from edge. Using his entire weight, he pumped the chest, pushing just a few jiffies faster than once per second. He counted to the number of days in a month before pressing his ear to the chest and listening again. Nothing. 

He shifted, and slid his hands towards the dragon's head, tilting the head back slightly, as he gently held the chin in the cup of his small hand. With a pinch of the nose, he took a deep breath and pressed his lips to the slight parted mouth, blowing air into the lungs. The mouth was cold to his touch, and worryingly stiff. He couldn't feel even a hint of life as he pushed air into the body. He retracted from the forced kiss and waited for a response. Nothing. 

Frustration growing like the bloating of a dead goat, he gritted his teeth, and this time used his elbow to compress the chest. With his other hand wrapped around his fist, he jammed the sharp point into the same spot, using his hand to drive more force into the motion. In quicker succession, he held his mouth to the dragons' and blew as much air as possible. His smaller lungs couldn't make enough of a difference in the giant expanse of the dragon's chest cavity, but he could try. His head felt light as he breathed harder and harder, twice. He began to see sparks flying in his vision, despite the lack of sight. It wasn't enough. 

He was about to abandon the task, barely able to sit up when the body under him convulsed and spit flew into his face, Loud gasps echoed in the darkness, sputtering as water was ejected out of the body. Groans mingled with the pained whine as life returned, reawakening the injury to the forefront of the mind. He wiped away the spit from his face as he leaned away, waiting for the creature to regain a grasp on breathing. 

"Foolish lizard. You may breathe fire, but you cannot breathe water." No comment came, expressing to what extent the feebleness had reached its fingers. With small hands, he helped the body to its side, allowing the water to drain away. He pushed the wet tendrils of hair from the dragon's clammy face, his fingers grazing the scales that poked from underneath the skin. He stroked the neck, using some of the heat from his hands to help the prone body regain it's strength. The fever would soon hit hard if he did not find a way to warm the body. 

The clothing he wore were wet and soggy from the travel underwater, and completely unsuitable for the task. He stripped them off anyways and laid them out on the ground. He needed a fire. He doubted there would be anything that could be used in the cave, so he clambered back into the water, "I'll be back, don't move." He plunged into the water. 

He returned with logs and sticks, now waterlogged and heaved them to the pebble shore. He followed the sound of labored raspy breathing and patted the ground until he found the ointment. Rather than leaving the medicine to be forgotten, he pushed the dragon onto his back and kneeled at his side. Dipping his fingers into the cool substance, he massaged it into the festering wound, applying it generously on and around the ragged edges that still oozed puss. He shushed when the dragon began to hiss, unconsciously at the agitation. 

Now came the issue of burning wet logs. He stood, his feet toying with the considerably dampened logs. If he'd had a body of his own, he would be able to ignite them, regardless of their state. He squatted down, feeling the rough bark on the logs, running his fingers into the cracks and divots. A corporeal body, a tangible form-how long had it been since he'd been able touch anything without destroying its very nature? Too long. He dug nails into the bark, splintering into his fingertips. Perhaps, perhaps he could try. Caressing the scintilla of power from his soul that kept him burning and alive all those years, he indulged in unraveling the barricades that held it all together. 

From the tips of his fingers, from under the torn nails, sparks flowed, snapping and biting at the wood, disregarding the wet state. Settling deep into the oak, the flares began to burn and he snatched the hands away, staring at them in the growing light. How peculiar. The hands... like the clearing of the senses, the energy coursed through them naturally, connecting with the meridians, giving him channels to use his skills. A smile stretched across his face. So the little halfling was more useful than it seemed. 

Confidence bursting into the extremities of his appendages, he blasted the remaining log with a ball of fire, light erupting in the cave. Momentarily blinded, he shielded his eyes, blinking away the darkened spots. When his vision cleared, he looked upon his patient for the first time with complete definition. 

With no clothes to speak of, or coverage of any sort, the long body was laid out by the water's edge like a carved marble statue, decorated with ruby gems along the pronounced juts and curves of the body. The flicker flames caught the scales and they sparkled under translucent skin. Great wings stretched far beyond the prone body, reaching deep into the dancing shadows. Beautiful. This is how one should look. 

He reached down to trace the lines of the slender face, running his nails across the smooth skin on the eyelids. At the slight touch, they fluttered and opened, bright orbs of light sparkling up at him. He caressed the brow, weaving his nail into the thick brow hairs. He softened his voice, dropping his voice to a lower range, "I told you I would return." 

The eyes closed once more, and if he hadn't been paying attention, he would have missed the way the head tilted closer into his touch.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Decisions are made, and old memories are rekindled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I'm probably the lord of long hiatuses so my apologies. My writing skills are a little rusty, but I hope you enjoy this ever so rare update!

"Balin, what do we do now?" The room was vast, yet felt entirely too small for the band of dwarves huddled together around the end of the long stone table. Dwalin's knuckles crushed each other in a painful cage, trying to trap the dangerous words, the treasonous thoughts, and his grieving heart. 

His wizened brother's head bowed towards the stone surface, unable to look at the others gathered around him. The meeting had been called out of necessity, not by his readiness for a future plan, or even the inkling of a next step. All he could say was what they all already knew. "Thorin, Fili, Kili are still trapped in slumber, Dis has fallen to the Orcs out by the Misty Mountains, what dwarves and men we host here are slowly being infected by the lung disease." No one spoke a word, but eyes shifted to Dori and Dwalin. Ori had fallen ill a few days ago, with an adamant cough which turned sour and left him bedridden. A cure was still out of reach.

"What of Dain? He could come and help couldn't he?" Bofur's usual cheerful demeanor had all but left him in this trying time. The only familiarity of his face was his curled beard, and even that had a certain droop to it. 

Nori, who had been leaning against the doorframe, barely within the circle of conversation responded in a low voice, "Dain has been dealing with issues of his own. He is not able to grant us aid." Bofur's eyes met Nori's for a brief second before shooting back to his hands, sinking lower into the stiff, cold seat. He had not spoken to the star-haired dwarf in such a long time, it almost felt as if they were strangers once more. Even if it was his fault for the current situation. 

"Then what do we do? Are we to give up all hope now?" Dori raised his voice in alarm, almost as an attack to Nori himself, rather than the words he said. The scars of past qualms and battles between the brothers had reopened, making the pain fresh since Ori's fall from health. Any peace they'd built during their journey was but a forgotten rag of poorly applied bandages. 

Nori didn't take to the bite, instead choosing his cold mask. "There's nothing we can do." His words hung heavily in the air, for all to feel against their shoulders. Their victory had been hard won, and well celebrated, but now, it felt as if it were all for naught. How could they possibly come out of this. Especially without their king? Their guide? All the brightest stars had dimmed. Thorin, Kili, Fili, Ori. 

A quiet voice spoke from the other end of the room. "Why not have Balin rule for the time being?" 

The dwarves swiveled around, surprised to hear the gentle voice of the Hobbit. "Bilbo?" Bofur's head lowered even more, the realization of his neglect reaching his mind. 

The hobbit's quiet feet padded towards the group. No one would notice the difference in his posture, or the way he lifted his chin just a bit higher. Instead, all they saw was the embodiment of their failure as a group. Had any of them seen the hobbit over the last few months? Had any of them visited? All eyes were cast elsewhere, painting a clear picture of the spread of guilt amongst them. Bilbo didn't pay it any notice. After all, he wasn't really Bilbo anymore. "Balin, you are the smartest of us all, and have had the most experience in all things related to dwarven tradition and politics. Since Dain cannot come, and … Thorin is still unable to make conscious decisions, you are the best we've got. Surely you'd rule with everyone's best interest in mind?" 

Heads turned back to the white haired dwarf who stared at Bilbo with what spark was left in him. "I couldn't possibly act as king, laddie. That is a right that I could not take." 

Bilbo stepped closer. "But what if it was given. What if, we all asked you to be?" He looked around the table at the others, who finally met his gaze. Each gave a silent nod in solidarity. All except for Oin. 

"Bilbo? Where have you been these two days? I've been so busy in the infirmary, would have liked your help." Oin's ears may have been dulled over the years, but his eyesight still bore deeply and clearly into the hobbit's features searching for an answer. 

Blue eyes sparked with yellow light for a moment, before quelling again. Untraceable. To the others it would seem like a trick of the candlelight. "I've been helping others who are further to reach. I figured since you're so busy within the infirmary and the spread has not yet been staunched that my mobility would be the best way to help Erebor." 

Oin paused, but conceded. "Thank you, Bilbo. Wouldn't have thought to do that myself." Again, the worm of doubt crawled into Oin's headspace. Maybe he was being overly paranoid? He should have known that's what Bilbo was doing when he'd noticed the hobbit sneaking away with his ointment reserves and a few other medicinal herbs. He sighed. At least he didn't try to blame him bluntly, that would have been embarrassing. 

Bilbo spoke to the motley crew of dwarves once more. "So, what say you?" 

It was Bombur who raised his hand first, "Aye, I believe Balin would be the best option while the King is resting." Quickly, Bofur and Bifur both nodded as well and conceded with an "Aye" in unison. Nori's nod was enough to know his meaning, and Dori slammed a fist onto the table, "We shall not give up, not while we have Balin here." Oin and Gloin raised their voice in agreeance. Dwalin was the last to say a word. He had not said a word since he brought up the subject. 

"Dwalin?" Bilbo carefully pried. Dwalin's crouched form was both menacing yet pitiful. Such a great beast, brought down by the sly wit of anxiety and fear. Bilbo did wonder, how did such a timid creature such as the youngest of the Ri brothers find any merit in this hunk of dim-witted means. 

"I would trust Balin with my life and Erebor." Dwalin's words rang with finality, settling the matter. Balin heaved himself up onto his feet and bowed his head. 

"I am grateful of all your trust in me, but I still cannot take control of the throne. It is not mine to control." 

"Then why not be a Steward? As the men do in Gondor?" Bilbo chimed. 

"Yes, that would be fine, right?" Dori stood up with renewed vigor. 

Balin was wary about the words, but gave a nod. "I will do my best." 

\--

Now that Oin thought he was taking care of others within Erebor, he no longer had to sneak away ointments and bandages. Instead, Oin willingly sent him off with a pack slung around his back. Bombur would pack a healthy serving of provisions with it, to give to the people he 'treated'. 

It all worked out very well for him, considering, he simply took to the same airduct as always to get to the lake. He would swim, each trip becoming easier and easier to manage. He'd made sure to line his pack with leather this time, to keep the water from soaking all the belongings. Lugging himself onto the pebble bed, he made note of the dying embers and coaxed them back to life with the magic he was slowly regaining. 

The dragon was asleep, laid out next to the fire. Its face was well defined, the light caressing the angles, painting him with warmth. His hand reached out to brush the red ridges lining the dragon's face. Dark hair was beginning to make root along the scalp, remember what it was like to be elven again. 

He remembered the days when his Lord had made the first Dragons. How marvelous that had been. Even the Valar didn't know the extent that Melkor had been experimenting with his might and craft. Dragons were his finest creations. Captured elves, who would not bend to his will, were instead subjected to a suffering unimaginable to any mortal creature. In a pool of molten lava, they were kept alive by the magic of Melkor, until the liquid stone had encased them, reduced them into nothing more than a desire to conquer. Then they were reformed, emerging as majestic, scaled, fire-breathing demons of the sky. Their metamorphosis stripped them of all past memories, and that's how they would remain until their façade broken. 

He'd never seen a broken dragon before, consider all of the ones that had fought were extinguished. He'd known of the process but hadn't considered how they might look after the magic wore away. Would this creature ever remember it's past? 

His touch woke the beast and it's eyes focused on him, no longer slitted and bright, but dark and stormy. Elven. So it was true. The 'curses' could be broken. He pulled the bag of medicine and food closer to the dragon. "I've brought you food this time. Come, eat." When no movement came, he unwrapped the jerky and cured ham. Knowing Smaug hadn't the strength to tear the pieces himself, he took the meat into his mouth and ripped off chunks. He held it close to the dragon's lips, but the dragon could barely chew. He sighed, putting the pieces in his own mouth and chewing it thoroughly. 

He shifted positions so that the dragon's head was in his lap and pulled out pieces of mush from his mouth. Coaxing the mouth open, he placed the meat into the dragon's mouth, using his other hand to help swallow. Slowly, he fed the dragon, and fractionally, the dragon's head nuzzled closer to his own body, attracted to the warmth. When all five pieces of meat were consumed, he grabbed the medicine to rub into the forming scar. It was healing. Faster now that it was treated properly. 

Even after he was done with his tending, he let the dragon sleep in his lap, letting his hands stray back to the scales poking out from the skin. Reminiscence struck him deeply and his chest clenched painfully, a feeling he hadn't had since he lost his physical form. He held a hand against his now beating heart. He longed for his own Master's presence. He wanted him back. 

And he would do everything he could to get him back.


End file.
